


Third Possibility

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Concurrent sexual relationships, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-03 23:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20461259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John Watson is caught between an immovable object and an irresistible force.Maybe there is a third possibility.





	1. A Conspiracy, of Sorts

When John suggested they could meet at half past six, he wasn’t expecting his sister to be on time. For Harry to be on time would have meant that she’d had some life-altering experience and was now aware that appointments had times, phones had alarms which were meant to keep you from inconveniencing other people, and inconveniencing other people was a bit not good, especially when you constantly complained that nobody was supporting your efforts to do whatever it was you were trying to do, for example, stop drinking, keep a job, and maintain a relationship.

Well, she is his sister, which was why he said _half six_ instead of seven o’clock, knowing she’d be late. And he is only her brother, which means she can show up whenever she bloody well pleases and he has to accept that. They’ve known one another all their lives. Maintaining a relationship with her is not something he has a choice about.

When he made up his mind that it was his sister who might be able to sort out his problem, he asked her to meet him.As soon as he’d received her reply, he texted Mary and Sherlock to let them know he wouldn’t be available until late, that he was meeting an old friend for a drink. It was Friday, so he was allowed.

Mary’s reply: _An old friend? You have friends? Remember, we’re going to taste wines tomorrow. And Sherlock wants to look at flowers._

He replied to Mary: _I won’t forget. _

Sherlock’s reply: _Do your friends live on Mount Kilimanjaro? In the Mariana Trench? Even Siberia has cell phone reception these days. _

He replied to Sherlock: _Lol just meant I won’t be answering. _

His reply to John: _Wine tasting tomorrow. And flowers. Don’t forget._

Harry finally shows up at ten after seven. Unsure about her current alcohol status, he’s picked a restaurant instead of a pub, thinking it might make it easier for her not to drink if she is trying to quit. But nothing is easy where Harry is concerned.

She’s grinning, her movements loose and a bit uncoordinated. _Recently started drinking again_, he hears Sherlock’s voice saying, _hasn’t built up her tolerance yet_.

The voice has been happening, more and more. When Sherlock was gone, he used to hear his voice at odd moments, deducing things. That became less frequent when he met Mary. Now both Sherlock and the voice have returned. What is even scarier is that sometimes he hears Mary’s voice, too. Sometimes the two voices argue. Having imaginary arguments in one’s head is odd, to be sure, but when the arguers don’t let him get a word in edgewise, it might be evidence of insanity.

“Don’t tell me,” she says, sliding into the booth. “They hate each other.”

The last time he saw Harry, Sherlock was dead. She’d gone back to Clara and stopped drinking. Sober Harry was a different person, not as self-absorbed, less of bully. He’d talked about Sherlock, and she’d actually been sympathetic, the way sisters are supposed to be. She hadn’t talked only about her own problems or interrupted him to tell him something random. She’d listened, and been kind. He’d promised to introduce her to Mary.

Tonight, he will have to settle for Drunk Harry.

“Not exactly,” he says.

She snorts. “So, _His Nibs_ comes swanning back into your life, and _She_ isn’t having it. They’re pretending to like one another, but neither one can stand the other.”

It’s a bit uncanny how Harry, who has never met either one of them, has mostly figured this out. It’s something about him, he decides. He is transparent. And she is like that sometimes, seeing through him with uncanny and embarrassing insight. There is no way she can deduce the whole mess, though.

They order two pints and an enormous plate of fish and chips to share. Harry downs half of her beer before the waitress has finished setting down the plates. She orders a second.

“I can tell this story is going to need alcohol,” she says. “What did you say to him? Did he apologise?”

He sighs and takes a sip of beer. “Let me tell you about that night.”

That was the night he was going to propose to Mary— the same night Sherlock had chosen to make his dramatic reappearance. In retrospect, it made sense that Fate would schedule these two competing events on the same evening. Whichever Fate has been assigned to unwind the skein of John Watson’s life has a perverted sense of timing.

Sherlock: drawn-on moustache, borrowed glasses, fake accent. In five minutes, John went through the five stages of What-the-Fuck: Denial, Anger, Shock, Rage, and Hell No.

When he got to _Hell No_, he’d hit Sherlock, drawing blood. A first, for him, to hit his best friend, but everything had happened so suddenly that he’d responded in the only way he could. After _Hell No_, there was too much for him to sort out— so angry, so relieved, so sad. If only he’d known. He’d lived through two years, thinking he would never feel alive again. His heart, forever broken. His heart, too angry to notice that his wish had been granted.

And here was Mary, suddenly part of the whole fucked-up equation.

_I’ll talk him around,_ she’d said, only hours after meeting the man. Sherlock was holding a bloody handkerchief to his lip, and she was smiling at the man who’d just crashed John’s proposal. It was that coy, conspiratorial smile he’d seen before. _John is being an idiot_, that smile said, _and we both know it. _And he’d gotten in a cab with her and driven home to the suburbs and their house full of heavy, expensive furniture that looked like chipboard.

And somehow, while he was having his crisis— staring open-mouthed and thinking _now what? — _everything had been arranged.

“Wait—” Harry says, draining her first pint. “You said you were going to propose to her, and he appeared, and you hit him. And now you’re engaged. When did the proposal happen?”

He stares down at his beer. “I don’t know.”

When he finally remembered the ring box in his pocket— which he’d completely forgotten as he stared into the face of the annoying waiter and realised that Sherlock Holmes was _not dead_, and everything suddenly meant something else, which meant he desperately needed to recalibrate his entire paradigm of the universe— by that time, the box was empty and the ring was on Mary’s finger.

He didn’t remember giving it to her. During the cab ride home, she’d been patting his hand and saying _I like him_… And he’d been staring out the window, not seeing anything, trying to get from Point X (Sherlock dead on the sidewalk, his blood pooling around him) to Point Q (Sherlock grinning at him, annoying as fuck, but very much alive). Point Y might have been the black tombstone he had visited, trying to make sense of it. And Point Z was supposed to be Mary and happily ever after. He had not foreseen Point Q.

Point Z, the no longer inevitable end point, gleamed in the solitaire that rested on Mary’s finger. The ring he’d been on the point of giving her when everything changed.

And it was, apparently, all his fault— because he hadn’t said _no_.

He’d heard Sherlock explaining how they’d arrived at Point Q, and he’d said, _no, not happening._ He’d punched the ghost, several times, and he’d gone home.

He’d heard Mary saying, _I like him._ And he said, _no. Just, no._

But nobody was listening to him. Maybe he hadn’t said _no _out loud.

“You were at Point Z,” Harry says. “But you wanted to be at Point Q? Look, you know I’m rubbish at math, or geometry— or whatever the metaphor is supposed to mean. Are you saying that when you saw Sherlock, you hit him, but you changed your mind about Mary? What happened?”

“It isn’t that simple.” He takes a swallow of beer. “Sherlock and I— we were more than friends.”

“More than— wait, wait. Pump the brakes. Wait.” Her intoxicated gaze narrows, her brain probably calculating the amount of alcohol it will take to incorporate _this_ into her world view. “You don’t mean that you were _soulmates_ or _queer/platonic_ or some other nonsense, do you?”

John shakes his head. “No. That isn’t what I meant.”

“You mean— _more…_ you mean—”

“Sex. We were having sex.”

“And you never told _me_? Jesus, John! I’m your sister— your _gay_ sister! Did you not think I should know that my brother is gay, or bi, or at the very least _not entirely straight_?”

John only knows one other person who speaks in italics, and that is Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. He, of course, deduced what was happening between the two of them, and used lots of italics to explain what a bad idea it was.

Harry’s spoken italics are the equivalent of the multiple exclamation points with interspersed multiple question marks that she uses in her texts.

“Jesus, John!” She drinks down half of her second pint. “How the bloody fucking hell…” She trails off, evidently running out of punctuation.

“It just… happened. And we never really talked about it. We just, well… started sleeping together. Well, more than sleeping. And we never told anyone, so it’s not like… well.”

“So, your problem is that you haven’t told Mary?”

“I think she knows now.”

“So, are you marrying her or not?”

“I am.”

“And Sherlock’s okay with that?”

“Surprisingly.”

“So… if _that’s_ not your problem, what is?”

He sighs and rubs his eyes. “It’s sort of a conspiracy.”

The bonfire. That was when he should have seen it. That was the moment when he understood that he was doomed.

When he’d finally made peace with Sherlock’s return, he’d headed over to Baker Street, not to apologise, or even expect more of an apology, but just to see _what now?_ And maybe figure out where they stood. As he rode the train, he wondered if it even made sense to think about his options. Mary and Sherlock, an immoveable object and an irresistible force. Both could not exist in the same universe without creating a paradox. And John was undoubtedly Schrödinger’s cat, neither dead nor alive in the box. Sherlock might not want him now; or he might say _you’re still mine. _Until then, limbo.

He got off the train and walked to Baker Street, resigned to whichever of these two possibilities resolved the paradox.

Sometimes John felt as if he was walking around with a note pinned to his chest saying _Abduct Me._ And another one on his back saying _Burn Me._ Because these things had happened before, and he was a fool to think they wouldn’t keep happening now that Sherlock Holmes was back in his life.

He felt the dart prick his neck.

So.

Interesting.

A third possibility.

It was a shock to open his eyes, still red and itchy from the smoke of the bonfire, and see both Sherlock and Mary leaning over him, asking if he was all right.

He was not all right. In a demented twist of a very cruel Fate, his two tyrants had joined forces. This would probably make things a lot worse. For John, at least.

Mary fussed over him, insisted on proving she had the skills to take care of her hapless fiancé. “Honestly, John,” she said, applying a plaster to his forehead where a branch had scratched him. “I don’t know how you’ve managed. Sherlock says you used to get yourself kidnapped regularly. That’s what you get, I suppose, for wandering around in a fog all the time…”

“I wasn’t in a fog,” he objected. “I was just bloody walking, like a normal person.”

She gave an exasperated huff. “It’s all in how you project yourself, John. I know, I _know_. You’re the _Captain_. But you look so… helpful all the time. Lost people come up to you and ask for directions. Homeless people ask you for spare change. People take advantage of you— I’ve seen it time after time. You’re cuddly and adorable, not intimidating. It’s like the playground, love. You’re a magnet for lost souls and bullies.”

“She’s right,” says Harry. “I remember our playground days. You, being picked on, and me, getting a suspension for beating up your bullies.”

“I learned to protect myself. I was in the army, for Christ’s sake. And my abductors hit me with a tranquilliser dart. They use those on lions and elephants, you know. It wasn’t as if fighting would have helped.”

“So how is it a conspiracy that they both want to protect you? You should be flattered that they both care so much.”

He thinks maybe he needs more beer to tell this story right. “I just mean, that’s when I saw the writing on the wall.”

The conversation he and Sherlock finally had was one he should have expected. He’d known Sherlock for over three years, though two of those were when he was dead, when they hadn’t had any actual conversations, except in John’s head. Probably didn’t count. Imaginary Sherlock was nicer than Real Sherlock, and more predictable. Real Sherlock was demanding and superior and completely unreliable. In the first year and a half of their flat share, John had been dragged into many situations against his better judgment. Knowing this, he should not have been surprised at Sherlock’s reaction to his engagement.

If they’d been two normal English men, they might have awkwardly talked around the issue. But their relationship— if he could use such a _normal_ word to describe whatever it was that they were in— had never been _normal_.

“Has Mary deduced?” was what Sherlock asked.

“I’m not sure.” She hadn’t said anything to him. But Mary had a way of reading his mind that was unnerving. She might have seen something flash across his face just as he was preparing to hit Sherlock. She might have read _I love him_ in the way he stirred his coffee at breakfast. And she’d teased him when he shaved off his moustache, deducing (correctly) that he was shaving for Sherlock Holmes. “She might suspect.”

Sherlock made a little scoffing sound and waved his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything.” The pale eyes narrowed. “Does it?”

“Sherlock, I’m getting married,” he said. That detail seemed like it was part of another story, one he’d been violently snatched out of just before being buried under a pile of wood and set on fire.

He shrugged. “I don’t mind. I’m not possessive.”

John huffed. “You’re the most possessive person I’ve ever known. How many of my girlfriends did you scare away before—”

“Before you understood that you are in fact _gay_, a deduction which took me exactly four minutes and nineteen seconds to make? Before I took possession of you and told Mrs Hudson we wouldn’t be needing that second bedroom after all, because I knew that’s what you really wanted?” He paused to smirk at John. “There were four females, I believe, if you count the one with the freckles, who didn’t last long enough to be part of the official count. Not one of whom stirred your passion in the least. You were rather slow about the whole thing.”

“Fine. I’m an idiot, as we both know. But this is different. She has a ring. We have a house in the ‘burbs with furniture and… things. Appliances. We bought a crock pot. And we have a shrubbery.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can share.”

“What makes you think _she’s_ willing to share?”

He shrugged. “Well, she’ll have to, won’t she? We can’t very well divide you.”

John wondered. If it came to that, if it were an actual Judgment of Solomon, which one of them would say, _Stop! Don’t cut him in two! Give him to my rival!_ No, neither one of them was made to share. They would be standing by as the swordsman prepared to execute justice, claiming first dibs on their favourite parts.

“Or you can just tell her you’ve changed your mind.”

“I can’t do that.”

He might blame Harry. Growing up with her had meant that there was always a row about something. Endless, pointless yelling and door-slamming and crying. And somebody had to be the good child, the one who came home with satisfactory grade cards and kept his room tidy and didn’t make his parents cry. He’d learned compromise on that battleground, his identity shaped by an instinctive desire to be _not like Harry._

“All right, then. We can negotiate the details later, after the wedding.” Then he pulled John towards him and kissed him. Not a kiss John could refuse. He’d been thinking about it since the restaurant. That night, he’d satisfied his urge to hit the smug git, but he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the other thing he’d wanted to do.

“Just don’t forget,” Sherlock said, unzipping John’s flies. “You were mine first. I will share, but I do not relinquish you.”

Harry is on her third beer. “You can’t seriously blame _me_, John.”

“Am I the only person who sees something wrong with this picture?” He follows this question with a fairly large draught of beer, part of which goes up his nose, causing him to snort. “This is not fine. It’s… it’s…” He huffs. “Why am I the only one who thinks this is wrong?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Harry looks like she might have an answer. “Maybe you could just—”

“No,” he says, setting his beer down with a slosh. “Listen to me. They’re planning the fucking wedding, and it’s like I’m not even part of the discussion. They both assume that we’re getting married and that it won’t change anything, that I’ll become joint property, like a dog or a holiday cottage.”

“So, you’re still having sex with him?”

“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. She has him written in on the calendar, in ink. She gets me Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. If there’s a case, they might trade nights. Friday I’m allowed to have a pub night with Lestrade.”

Harry nods. “Polyamory. Very trendy these days. Well, you won’t be having sex with him next Saturday, I guess. It’s the wedding, innit?”

“Didn’t you get the invitation?”

“I did. I’m assuming they’ll have assigned me to the table with the other drunks.”

“It’s a nightmare. They’ve done everything. Mary picked the venue because it goes with the bridesmaid’s dresses. I have to wear a grey suit because blue will clash with the bridesmaids, who are purple. Or lavender— no, lilac. Some purplish colour. They picked the photographer, the flowers, the cake, even the sodding cake knife. I didn’t know weddings required special cake knives. Sherlock wrote my vows for me. He taught me how to waltz so I won’t embarrass myself on the first dance. He’s _written_ the music for the first dance and plans to play it on his violin. They spent weeks arguing about where we should take our honeymoon!”

“Is he going with you?”

“God, I don’t even know. I wanted to go fishing in Scotland, but they vetoed that idea. Mary wanted Aruba, and Sherlock wanted Hungary, God knows why. They compromised on some small Greek island.”

“Nobody goes to Scotland for a sex holiday, Johnny,” she says. “Have you asked him to be your best man? He’ll expect that.”

“I didn’t have to ask. I said something about him being the _best man,_ and he said, _though it’s gratifying that you acknowledge my superiority in most areas, you hardly need to flatter me, John. _When I explained what it meant, he said, _Isn’t that what I’ve been doing here? Arranging everything for your wedding?_”

The idea of standing at the altar between the two of them makes John’s head spin, just a bit. _The two people who love me most. _“I feel like I need to take control of this situation, but I keep getting outmanoeuvred.”

Harry shakes her head. “You were in the army. Did you politely ask your subordinates to consider your suggestions? Or did you give orders?”

“This isn’t like the army. Neither of them listens to me, and they certainly don’t take orders. Both of them would have been tossed out of the army for insubordination.” He stares at the bottom of his pint. “What would you have done if I’d been insubordinate?”

“I would have smacked you into the middle of next week,” she says, frowning as if he’s being deliberately stupid. “Which one do you love?”

This is an interesting question, he thinks. If someone had asked him this two years ago, he would have said that Sherlock Holmes was the only person he’d ever loved. Nobody had asked him, however. People mostly left him to deal with the death of his flatmate alone, hopeful that he would not make things awkward by crying.

Yes, he does love Sherlock, although he’s done a number of _not good_ things. Love means forgiving those things, even when your lover disappears for two years and returns without warning, making fun of your moustache and telling you you’re overreacting. He forgives him that, though he hasn’t really forgotten that Sherlock obtained that forgiveness by pretending he couldn’t diffuse the bomb, forcing John into a state of panic and _Oh, God, I must forgive him before we die_. Not good.

Well, love isn’t perfect. Its course cannot be expected to run smoothly, with sublime understanding and all that. Sherlock definitely isn’t perfect. But he did save John from a life of tedium, kept him from fading away in that dismal little bedsit. Life with Sherlock has never been boring. John loves Sherlock, even now.

And he loves Mary. He can never repay what she’s done for him. The slough of despond he fell into after Sherlock’s death might have eventually led him to suicide. She was exactly what he’d needed— funny, clever, a bit of a bully who forced him to get out and back into life. She’s pretty, but not vapid like most of his pre-Sherlock girlfriends. She has individuality, a confidence that he admires. And she loves him. That meant so much to him when he was trying to move on. He’d known that he would never have another love like Sherlock, but if he’d never met Sherlock, Mary would definitely have been the one. And they might have children, something he’s always thought about, something Sherlock has no interest in.

It is unfortunate that he had met the love of his life twice, in two different people, who were now taking every bit of his soul and divvying it up into piles.

But is this love he feels? Or is it gratitude? Or maybe something else? Maybe he’s afraid of being alone, never finding love again.

“It’s not a trick question, John.” Harry is looking at him over her fourth pint. “Which one of them would you choose? It’s up to _you_, not them, you know.”

“I don’t know,” he says, feeling as if he’s just stabbed both of them. “Which one do you think is the best match for me?”

She sighs again and drinks her beer. “I always thought that love was something so special, so unique, you would just know when it hit you. But I’ve been hit by so many loves who turned out to be something else, I can’t really say that I know what love is. The best I can describe it is that it’s like being hit by a large truck. For a moment you think you’re flying, and you enjoy that sensation, but then you realise you’ve been hurled through the windshield and are probably going to hit a tree and die. That’s just my experience; your mileage may vary. And I don’t know Mary or Sherlock, except what you’ve told me. You’re going to have regrets, either way. That’s life, I say.”

“But you know me, Harry. You ought to be able to help me figure it out.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Ideal lover: woman or man?”

“I don’t know. I used to think I preferred women, but I don’t know if that’s true any more.”

“Obviously not. Who’s the better lover?”

He huffs. “Women don’t know how to give a decent blow-job. Men will always do that better than a woman. Sherlock is enthusiastic and he knows what I like. But Mary isn’t a bad lover. She’s got a nice body. Very fit, plush in the right spots. And she has other qualities that Sherlock lacks.”

“Okay, we’ll give Sherlock one point for sex. How about as a flatmate? Who’s easier to live with?”

“Oh, Mary— hands down. She’s much more organised. Very neat. We haven’t once been overdrawn. She pays the bills, calls the plumber, keeps a calendar by the phone. No body parts in the fridge, no messy experiments over breakfast. And she seems to know when to ignore me, give me some space. Sherlock is either all over me or completely in his Mind Palace.”

“Mary gets a point, then, for being a considerate flatmate. Which do you _like_ better? As a friend, I mean?”

He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a pub night with either of them. “Neither. I’d rather hang out with Lestrade.”

“One point for Lestrade. The next question is Final Jeopardy.” She leans towards him. “Which one would you want to spend the rest of your life with? No— don’t answer yet. Think about it— the best or worst future you could imagine. In that future, who would you want to be with?”

He considers this.

Mary would be easier to live with; she would not piss him off all the time. He would have to do things her way, because she is always right when it comes to practical matters like appliances and appointments. She handles small emergencies with poise, and even a large emergency does not faze her, like when her husband’s dead lover suddenly reappears. They would have a circle of friends, a monthly bridge night, take annual holidays at the shore, even if the apocalypse were imminent. Things would always be where you expect them to be, pencils by the phone, car keys in the ashtray neither of them uses. She would see that he exercised and took vitamins, and keep him from drinking too much. There is no doubt that he would have a longer life under her supervision. And she will probably live longer than Sherlock, since she isn’t running after criminals, taking ridiculous risks. With Mary, there could be children, and eventually grandchildren. It’s hard to toss aside the species imperative to reproduce and pass on one’s genes.

Sherlock, on the other hand, would never be boring. His enthusiasm for odd topics never gets old, his propensity for finding danger is infallible. Living through an apocalypse might even be fun with Sherlock there to make condescending remarks about zombies and radiation. John is always learning something new when they work together, often speechless at the things that happen when they take a case. He is brilliant, amazing to watch whether he’s solving a crime or dancing a waltz. He doesn’t have a social calendar, doesn’t care if John wants to go to the pub with Lestrade or see his old rugby buddies. He does bully John sometimes, but that is usually during cases, when he isn’t very polite to anyone. And he has lied to John. A very big lie, pretending to be dead for two years. He might die early, too. That seems likely. Having lost him once, John isn’t sure he can do that again.

Harry is looking at him, waiting. “Okay, I’ll reword it: who would you most regret losing?”

Losing Mary might be easier. She has already set up online billing for most of their payments, and he won’t have to hunt about the flat for things because every closet has organisers. She would probably leave a note on the fridge before dying, reminding him of what meals are in the freezer and how long to heat them up.

Sherlock might be the death of John. It’s dangerous, what they do. Still…

“Sherlock.”

It’s clearly Drunk Harry who’s smiling at him now. “Okay, we have a winner! You should break up with Mary, move back in with Sherlock. Problem solved.”

“I don’t think Mary will accept that.”

“Let her keep the ring.”

“But she loves me. I don’t think I can do this to her. She really saved my life, you know, after Sherlock died.”

“Is that enough to be spending the rest of your life with her?”

He doesn’t have an answer for this.


	2. Just the Groom

He’s getting married, he decides, only because he can’t figure out what else to do. Each of them contributes something to his well-being; the two of them together will eventually drive him out of his mind. He is unhappily taking the path of least resistance. Being a bastard to either one of them— breaking off with Mary, or telling Sherlock it’s over— might be preferable to this, but he can’t do it. There are no good choices here, not that he can see.

When he awakens on his wedding day, he’s in Sherlock’s bed, having spent the night, which was a Friday. Mary had given them Thursday as well, having a full agenda of preparations to attend to, so they had the stag do then. Sherlock had planned a tour of pubs which were somehow involved in cases they’d solved. John doesn’t remember most of it. There was a case, he thinks. And they ended up in the lock-up. Greg yelled.

Both of them spent Friday in bed, recovering. And other things.

Now Sherlock is in wedding mode, mentally ticking off things that needed to happen. He’s had a shower, and is now pacing around the flat in his dressing gown, muttering. Their suits are hanging in plastic bags on the back of the bedroom door.

“Get up, John,” he’s saying. “Your eyes will be puffy for photographs if you don’t become vertical soon. We have two hours. In that interval, you need to eat breakfast, shower, shave, and dress. We might need to brush up on the dancing as well.”

He sighs and buries his face in the pillow. “Morning sex?” he suggests. “If you want me _up_, that is.”

He can feel Sherlock rolling his eyes. “Save it for tonight. For the sex holiday.”

“You made the reservations, right?” He turns to face his wedding planner.

“I did.”

“And you’re not a bit jealous?”

He smiles mysteriously. “As I’ve repeatedly said, I can share.”

John sits up. “You mean, you’re _not_ coming with us. You’re _not_ going to turn up at the hotel dressed as a waiter or something.”

“Of course not. That would be too obvious.” He frowns. “Get a move on, John. This is no day for puffy eyes.”

“You’re being cryptic, which means you’re planning something. Something devious. Tell me.”

“For breakfast I have planned eggs, which are not devious. I can make waffles if you’d like, but that might be a bit carb-heavy. We need to keep your blood sugar as even as possible. No spikes, no dips. Whole wheat toast with butter and a bit of jam, I think. Would you prefer scrambled or fried this morning?”

“Sherlock,” he says, feeling a bit queasy. “You’ve got that look. I know that look from the many times you didn’t tell me something I needed to know. Like, _I’m getting in a cab with the murderer._ Or _there’s no monstrous hound in the lab._ Or _I’m not really dead. _You need to tell me.”

Chuckling, Sherlock goes to make breakfast.

John gets up. The first thing he does is to take Sherlock’s phone from the bedside and look through his email for the plane reservations.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “He’s gonna kidnap me.”

It’s his own life, and he’s been sidelined. They arrive at the church in a cab. Sherlock immediately finds a room to stash him in, giving his suit a final inspection and warning him not to lock his knees during the service.

“That’s why grooms often faint at the altar,” he explains. “Low blood sugar combined with poor circulation caused by pooling of blood in the legs. You had ninety-eight grams of carbohydrate for breakfast, which ought to be sufficient to keep your blood sugar from plunging. Just remember to keep your knees bent a little.”

He nods, and Sherlock, after commanding him to _stay put,_ rushes off to inspect the ushers. Peering out the door of his assigned room, John sees the florist putting the flowers in place, the photographer testing the flash on the guests arriving early. The bridesmaids pose for a photo. The cake is delivered, purple fondant flowers and all.

He wonders, for the first time, what all of this is costing them. He could have been happy with much less, he thinks. This seems more like a coronation than a church service, which is what it actually is. What seems really odd is how seriously Sherlock is taking all of it. The Sherlock he knew, the one who hadn’t yet fallen off the hospital and pretended to die, did not care about weddings. He never went inside a church, unless it involved a case. He certainly didn’t know about all the minute details he’s handled so flawlessly. Even Mary commented that he had missed his calling, that he should have been a wedding planner rather than a consulting detective.

It’s like being in an alternate universe.

It’s time. As he stands at the front of the church, looking out over the congregation of guests, all their friends and family, he knows that most of them would be shocked to learn what kind of life awaits normal John Watson. He sees a large group from the clinic where he and Mary work, a substantial number from Scotland Yard, including Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson, though he’s not sure who invited the latter.

His only family member is Harry, sitting in the front row, smiling at him. She knows what he’s in for.

The organist finishes playing the prelude and begins the processional. Mary is standing in the narthex, behind the line of lavender/lilac bridesmaids, ready to march down the aisle after them. Sherlock had objected to the traditional _Here Comes the Bride_, not because it was cliché, but because he dislikes Wagner. A long argument was settled when Mary agreed to Pachelbel’s Canon. He’s not sure what music they chose for the recessional march. He’s just hoping he can find his way down the aisle.

Sherlock is at his side, impeccable in his charcoal morning coat and lighter grey trousers. He can feel a kind of smugness radiating from him that doesn’t bode well for the next twenty minutes. He’s curious, but has long ago given up guessing. He’s just the groom.

Mary knows this is her day. She is radiant in her white dress (vintage lace, floral headpiece), and wears a smile that is even more smug than Sherlock’s.

Feeling a bit detached, he hears the music change and watches as she begins her march down the aisle. Almost as if he were a disinterested spectator to the entire event, he is placing bets on whether they will make it through the service without some major cock-up. Mary had checked the order of service at least seventy-eight times, making small changes to the bulletin’s font and spacing. Her pedantic fussing over details is getting on his nerves, but he knows better than to say anything. Sherlock is nothing if not unpredictable. As smart as Mary is, as well as she has come to know Sherlock, he is still the smartest person in the room. Mycroft sent regrets.

They are facing the altar now, and the priest is addressing the congregation.

“Dearly beloved,” he begins. “We are gathered in the presence of God and one another to solemnise the marriage of these two people, John and Mary.”

It’s a bit formal, but Sherlock had argued that _casual_ was not a word that should describe any nuptials.

“If there is anyone present who knows of a reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

Mary is looking across him, aiming daggers at Sherlock. “What the bloody—” she hisses. “That’s not in the ceremony!”

Sherlock is raising his hand. “I object.”

This is not expected. The priest is probably remembering why the objections question is generally left out of the ceremony.

The congregation is stirring, muttering. Not like an angry mob, but like a mob of wedding guests getting their phones out, preparing to upload video to You Tube.

The priest closes his mouth, then opens it, closes it again. Finally, words. “On what grounds?”

Sherlock speaks calmly. “We had an agreement. A contract, if you will.”

“What are you on about?” Mary says. She’s speaking loudly. “He’s marrying me, not you!”

“Contract?” the priest asks.

“Let me explain,” Sherlock says. He pulls a paper from his jacket pocket and waves it at her. “This is not what we agreed on. You cannot simply change the terms, not without discussing it.”

“I have a legal right,” she replies. “You have no claim on John.”

John raises his hand. “May I say something?”

“No!” Both of them, together.

“A marriage _licence _is not legally binding,” Sherlock explains, “until signed and filed with a registrar. I have a prior claim, one based on our long-standing agreement. An agreement you are not party to and have no right to change.”

“Unwritten agreement.” She makes a dismissive gesture. “It has nothing to do with our marriage.”

“Nevertheless, he is my partner. You cannot simply pull him out of our partnership. He is necessary to the operation of our consulting business, which provides income to us both.”

“He has a job already, one that actually results in a _salary_,” she replies. “And in a few minutes, when we both sign the marriage license—”

“A piece of paper is not what makes a partnership,” says Sherlock. He is facing the congregation now. “John is my conductor of light. I cannot do the Work without him.”

Mary sneers. “Oh, is that why you let him think you were dead for two years? Who was conducting light for you then?”

“As I have repeatedly explained, that deception was necessary. Knowing I was alive would have put his life in danger. I did it for him, and would do it again.”

“He doesn’t trust you, Sherlock,” she says, smiling that tight, dangerous smile. “He knows that you lied to him and that you’ll certainly do _that_ again whenever it’s convenient_._”

“Excuse me,” John says.

Mary rolls her eyes. “Oh, do shut up, John. This isn’t about you.”

Sherlock looks smug. “That wedding license you plan on signing— what name will you put there? _Mary Morstan?_ Or one of your other aliases? In any case, I doubt that it will be legally binding.”

This silences the entire room for a moment. Then there is a buzz of talk, people turning to one another and asking, _What did he say? What does it mean? _Several people are moving towards the front of the church, their phones up, recording.

Sherlock’s smugness ratchets up a few notches. “What? You haven’t told him? He doesn’t know about your _other_ career— as a paid assassin?”

Now the silence is complete. What Sherlock is suggesting is so absurd, John thinks he must be joking, futilely grasping at humour, the same way he would pencil on a moustache and call it a disguise.

“I may have lied to protect John, but you have concealed the truth from him— to protect _yourself_. Your name is only one small part of your web of lies. You are using him, not because you love him, but because he is your cover.”

She is angry now. “You can’t prove any of these… these ridiculous claims.”

“I _can_ prove them,” Sherlock says. “You’ve worked for both the CIA and the Russians. Three years ago, as a freelance assassin, you drew a pay cheque signed by James Moriarty.”

“Never heard of him,” Mary snaps. She bares her teeth at Sherlock. “Where are you getting all this?”

“You were at the pool,” says Sherlock. “You had your rifle aimed at John’s chest. That’s why you started dating him after I was gone. You were hoping to find out where I was.”

“You…” John says, looking at his bride. “You’re not… not supposed to be like that.”

She laughs. “Like what? You don’t actually believe him, do you?”

“Were you the sniper? The one who was supposed to kill me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John—”

He’s yelling now. “Why am I always the last to know?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “Not now, John. You can have your meltdown later, when we’re on our way to Hungary.”

Mary gives John a furious glare, then turns to Sherlock, smiling triumphantly. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?!” John’s mouth drops open.

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “Do be quiet, John.” He smirks at Mary. “No, you’re not. That, like everything else about you, is fake.”

“He’s mine,” she says fiercely. “I’ve put up with you for weeks now, but that’s over, once the license is signed. Give it up, Sherlock. He hasn’t forgiven you, and he loves me.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Do you really think so? Now that he knows what you are, can you actually imagine that he loves you? Let’s ask him.”

They’re both looking at John now.

“Which of us do you love, John?” asks Sherlock. “It’s entirely up to you.”

Mary’s glare is icy. “Choose! For once in your life, John, make a decision.”

At that moment, with both of them waiting for his answer, the entire congregation awed into silence by the strange drama playing out— at that moment, John Watson recognises what he should have seen months ago, maybe years ago: he has a choice.

He makes his decision.

Stepping between the two of them, he walks down the steps of the chancel, continues down the aisle strewn with rose-petals. The only sound he hears is Harry clapping. He walks through the doors into the narthex, where tiny bags of rice tied with lavender ribbons are waiting to be opened and tossed at the newlyweds, out the front doors of the church and to the street, where he walks past the limo, flags down a cab, gets inside, and drives away.


	3. Gone Fishing

In the week that follows, John has plenty of time to think, no one to tell him he’s an idiot, no one to fill his calendar with things he doesn’t want to do, and no one trading him back and forth like a child in a custody battle.

The locum job is not exciting, but it leaves him time to go for walks. He finds tackle in Dr Jack’s shed and goes fishing. He cooks his own meals, eats what he likes, and sleeps when he feels like it. The freedom is glorious.

His patients are village folk like those he grew up with. He enjoys talking with them, hearing all the drama that lies under their ordinary lives. It reminds him of being a boy, talking with tradesmen and shop owners, people who all know his name.

He doesn’t think much about Mary or Sherlock. They will do whatever they decide to do. Instead, he thinks about who he is, what made him the man he turned into.

He’s always been somebody’s satellite.

His parents were just working class people, average and ordinary parents trying to do their best. They might have been harsher than necessary, and they might have imposed their own ideas on him of who he was. That was what parents do, he supposes. His mum and dad did their best and let him go.

He’d instinctively looked up to Harry, the big sister who bullied him like it was her job. But her life became a mess before John was even grown enough to understand it all. She left home with a boy when she was sixteen, returned with a girl when she was eighteen. John wasn’t even out of school yet. He was still doing homework, playing rugby, keeping his room neat, and minding his manners. He’d modelled himself by observing her mistakes.

When he left home, he was somebody’s roommate, somebody’s friend, drawn into whatever orbit was closest. People liked him, but he was never at the centre of any social circle. He fit into different groups, dated different girls. Always playing a supporting role, he didn’t make a name for himself. He was not a person whose name would be brought up at reunions: _what ever happened to John Watson?_

He went to medical school because it made him feel useful to do a job that was necessary and important. It was something he could do well. Helping people, easing their pain and improving their lives, gave him a purpose. His small, steady hands could fix what was wrong.

In Afghanistan, he met James Sholto. Nothing romantic there, but perhaps a bit of hero worship. He fell into step with the older man immediately, using him as his model of a good soldier. He’d always taken orders from somebody, so that part was easy. And even when he had to give orders, it wasn’t really his own authority, but the rank he held. In the chain of command, there was always someone above him, holding him accountable if he didn’t do his job. And it was a matter of life and death that he get it right, not just his own personal feelings. He did what he was expected to do.

Returning to civilian life is where he lost his way, he realises. At first, he struggled to feel useful. He couldn’t do surgery any longer. Hell, he couldn’t even walk without a cane. He’d lost his purpose.

Meeting Sherlock changed him. At times, he has reflected on what might have happened if they hadn’t met. There was a chance that he would have killed himself. In that sense, Sherlock might have literally saved his life, just by being there, asking _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ By inviting him along on that first case, running him around London, proving to him that he was still worth something. This is part of the reason he stayed. He felt useful again when he was walking with Sherlock, seeing the battlefield.

Now he thinks, _that all might be true_. But he will never know what would have happened if he hadn’t met Sherlock. He might have met someone else, someone who could have been enough to keep him getting out of bed each day and looking for meaning.

Or he might have found a job that gave him a purpose. He might have gone abroad again, maybe to Africa or somewhere doctors provided care. He might have counselled other vets with PTSD. He might have married a woman, and had an affair, divorced, opened a bakery, moved to Australia, won the lottery, lost a fortune, married a man, and written a bloody book.

He could have done any one of those things, or all of them, if that’s what he’d decided. But he hadn’t thought about what he wanted, outside of being useful. He’d looked for someone to follow.

If there is one thing he could have changed about himself, it’s this: he should have been less afraid to be who he was. He shouldn’t have settled for being a satellite. He should have had a stronger sense of himself. 

He understands that some people, like Sherlock and Mary, seem to have such a strong sense of themselves as individuals that they experience no worry about what others might think. They don’t model themselves on others, but follow some internal compass that guides them. It has little to do with morality; it is simply a sense of who they are and what they must do.

Sherlock knows he is a difficult person, rude and asocial. Though he sometimes moderates his behaviour if John suggests he be _nicer, _he accepts that he is who he is and expects others to take him or leave him. He is more subtle than Mary, but he generally gets his way.

Mary is an unapologetic bully. As a child of divorced parents, he doesn’t know what a healthy marriage is supposed to look like. Compromise, he assumes, is part of marriage. Now that he thinks about it, though, the compromise has been all on his part.

Would he have chosen Sherlock if he hadn’t been at such a low point in his life?

Would he have chosen Mary if he hadn’t been drowning in grief?

If he had seen other options, would he have chosen either of them?

They chose him, he realises. He merely followed. They filled an emptiness in him, a place waiting to be filled.

He wonders. Maybe the question he should be asking is this: will they follow him now?

Weeks go by, and he makes no decision to stay or to leave. He visits Dr Jack in the hospital every few days, checking on his progress. He’s an old man with two hip replacements and a dodgy heart. He’s been in this village for over thirty years.

“Maybe you’ll stay,” he tells John. “I’m not willing to retire yet, but it would be nice to have some help.”

“Maybe,” John says. “I need to think about it.”

Dr Jack doesn’t ask what he needs to think about. He’s a man trained to read between the lines, to know what people can’t say. That has been the biggest part of his usefulness in this small town, to be a holder of secrets, a sounding board, a confessor, a healer of more than bodies.

_Maybe I will stay_, John thinks. He won’t rule it out. It’s not probable, but it is possible. He’s beginning to miss the city, he realises. Maybe it’s the danger he misses. He is not in a hurry to decide. There is time for thinking.

Most days, he doesn’t catch any fish, but he likes standing in the clear water, casting out where the fish might be. Or sitting on the dock, dropping a line down into the water. He’s rubbish at fishing, he knows. Some of the other anglers stop by the surgery and leave him fish, feeling a bit sorry for a man who seems to like fish so much, but can’t catch any.

It’s late afternoon. He’s wearing a pair of Dr Jack’s fishing pants, rolled up to the knees, and walking through the village, smiling at the people who greet him. They ask, “No luck?” And he shakes his head, still smiling. He might have more luck hunting rabbit or duck. At least he knows how to aim a gun at something and hit it. But fishing is relaxing. Maybe that’s why he’s no good at it.

As he turns the corner onto the main road, where the surgery is, he sees a patient waiting outside his door. No, not a patient. A patient would know the door is never locked.

It’s Sherlock.

They don’t say anything to one another as John approaches. No called-out greetings, no laughs of surprise. They regard one another for a minute. Sherlock is the same, his hair a bit longer, but the sharp, grey gaze still misses nothing. He wonders what Sherlock sees now.

“Door’s open,” he says. He turns the knob, allows Sherlock to precede him inside.

“You look well,” Sherlock says.

“I am.” He nods. “You, too.”

He puts the kettle on, makes the tea without asking. Holding steaming mugs, they sit. For several minutes, neither one of them begins the conversation they need to have. He will speak first, he decides.

He blows on his tea. “How’s Mary?”

Sherlock smiles. “Cashed in the tickets for your sex holiday, went to Aruba with Janine. I haven’t seen either one of them. I heard Janine has moved to Sussex. Mary is no longer in London. Perhaps professional interests have taken her elsewhere.”

“Professional interests,” he says. “So, you weren’t just making up all that rubbish?”

“Not at all. It took me longer than it should have to put the pieces all together— the lack of any family, the skip code, even the way she responded to her name. But I didn’t receive confirmation until the eleventh hour. The night before the wedding I learned that Mary Morstan was an infant who died in 1972. On the morning of the wedding, she told me, in that letter I showed, that you wouldn’t be working with me anymore, and I should back off. She would allow me some contact with you, but on her terms. If I did not agree, she would take you out of London and I would never see you again. Her words, and I think she might have done it.”

“Come on,” he says. “Do you really think I would have let her do that?”

Sherlock looks sad. “I wasn’t sure. She’s very persuasive, and I didn’t really know how you felt. You seemed annoyed with me. I thought…” He shrugs. “At any rate, I was ready to challenge her by then.”

“And of course you had to do that in the most dramatic way possible.”

“Well, exposing her publicly seemed the best way. Perhaps it was overly dramatic, but I wasn’t going to let her spirit you away.” His smile fades a bit. “Instead, you spirited yourself away.”

“How did you find me? It didn’t really take you two months, did it?”

“No. Two days.”

John sees the smile turn a little smug. “I know you want to tell me how you did it, so carry on.”

Sherlock’s smile broadens. “You wanted to go to Scotland for the honeymoon. You mentioned fishing. I knew you’d grown up in Northumberland. Not this village, but another similar. You were wondering how you ever got to a point where you had no say in your own life, and you thought you needed to go back in time to figure it out. You’re not a person who enjoys sitting around, though, so you would need something besides fishing to keep you busy. All I had to do was check locum jobs in the area and see which one you’d taken.”

“Amazing,” he says.

Sherlock laughs. “You’re just taking the piss now.”

“I am.” He smiled back. “Mary could have found me in a day.”

“But she didn’t. And it took me two days only because I spent the first twenty-four hours after you left unable to think at all.” He lowered his gaze. “You think I’m joking.”

“I’m not sure I can recall a time when you’ve been unable to think.”

“It happens. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, John. Most of them having to do with you. I’m a ridiculous man, redeemed only by your friendship… by your love. Not sure how you feel about that now, but it’s true. So much that I take for granted is a result of having you at my side.”

“Making the tea,” John says, nodding. “Fetching the milk. Finding the phone. I’m guessing you were going to put all of that in your best man speech.” It's a bit mean, saying this, but he feels like he needs to be honest. He can’t overlook bullying.

Sherlock winces. “Point taken. When I say _take for granted, _I don’t mean those things, though they are nice, and yes, I did take them for granted. What I mean is…” He sighs and looks up from his lap, where he’s been folding and unfolding his long fingers. “I thought people liked me. It turns out that they like you, and only put up with me. What people witnessed at your wedding, as you were preparing to make the biggest mistake of your life—”

“Sherlock—”

“What I mean is, it was your choice to make, not mine. And it’s your choice, still. I’m glad you didn’t go through with it, and if my revelations helped, I will accept the fallout, which has been considerable. The only person at that wedding who still speaks to me is Lestrade, and that’s only because he occasionally needs my help. Anderson and Donovan never liked me, but I thought that reflected more on them than on me. Now, I’m not so sure. Even Mrs Hudson speaks to me only when necessary. She’s entirely stopped making those scones I like, the ones with the currants. Molly has gotten over her infatuation and now greets me with _what do you want?_ It’s disheartening. The fact that nobody likes Mary either doesn’t exactly raise my spirits. She and I were both at fault that day, but hiding the fact that you’re an assassin isn’t a lot better than pretending to be dead for two years. Probably worse. At least I admitted what I’d done, and apologised. I don’t think she would ever have told you.”

“It’s rather difficult to compare the two,” John says. “Neither is a trivial oversight.”

Sherlock sighs heavily. “I’m sorry about your wedding. Not sorry that you didn’t actually get married, but it might have been better to have ruined it earlier. Our row shouldn’t have been a public spectacle. I hear the reception was nice, though.”

“There was a reception?”

“The venue was booked, and it was too late to get back the deposits. The food was all paid for and ready to serve, and it seemed a waste not to use it, so I told them to go ahead.”

“But you didn’t go?”

“I’m not that big of an arsehole. And don’t worry about gift returns— I’ve managed that as well.”

“So,” John summarises. “People don’t like you.”

“I’ve never really cared what people think,” Sherlock says. “But I do care what you think.” He pauses, studying John. “It’s true. I have taken you for granted. I’m sorry for that. I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.”

“And it took you two months to figure that out.”

“No, it took me a week. Might have been longer, but nobody was speaking to me, so I had a lot of Mind Palace time. I was already fairly sure I was an arsehole, but I was thinking about you most of that time, how my actions have affected you. I would have come here sooner, but wasn’t sure you wanted that. I’ve been trying to calculate the optimal amount of time before I should ask you to come back, but it keeps coming out in years. I grew impatient. I can’t wait years, so here I am. As I said, it’s your choice.”

“Mary hasn’t looked for me.”

“No. She was humiliated, being left at the altar like that. It’s dangerous, you know, snatching that delusion from a woman. A wedding is like a coronation, an affirmation of a woman’s attractiveness and worth. My self-worth, though decreased, has survived. I am diminished, but carry on, and I will accept your decision, whatever it may be. And though my opponent has forfeited the game, I do not consider myself the default winner. You may choose to walk away.”

It's quite an admission, not something he ever thought he’d hear Sherlock say. And he’s willing to continue the conversation.

“Will you stay to dinner?”

“I will. And if you can recommend an inn nearby—”

“You’ll stay with me.”

He makes dinner for them, frying some fish one of his patients has left for him, slicing a loaf of bread baked by another. There is beer, of course, and Sherlock has brought him a gift, a bottle of wine, which they open after the meal is done.

Sherlock tells him about the few cases he’s had. He still complains about Anderson and Donovan, but now he also describes his own errors. They aren’t many, but the fact that he mentions them at all is new. The fact that he credits Lestrade for noticing something significant, for keeping the crime scene free of contamination— this is also new. It’s not a whole new Sherlock, but it shows that he’s thinking.

John has been thinking, too, but he’s not sure what he’s decided.

Sherlock sleeps on the sofa.

John lies awake in his bed. Sherlock hasn’t begged him to come back. He suspects Sherlock isn’t going to change, though.

He can put it off, but eventually he has to make a decision. It won’t go away, this decision. He can stay here, avoid thinking about it, settle in, and end up living this life for the next thirty years. It wouldn’t be a bad life. Or he could return to London, go back to work at the surgery. He could take another job. Either way, his life might be good.

But he doesn’t just want to drift in a new direction. He must choose. Sherlock will probably keep doing what he’s doing until he dies, but he deserves to know where he stands with John. He came up here to apologise, and he hasn’t asked John to come back with him. He hasn’t assumed that he is John’s only choice.

Mary made her decision. He will never see her again, and it does not weigh on him. Losing her is not painful. She took care of him, dragged him out of his grief, showed him how to be happy again. But she didn’t love him. He was wrong about that. She might have been using him. Now that he thinks about it, this seems most likely.

It doesn’t matter. Sherlock has used him, too. His choice isn’t Sherlock or nothing, it’s not Sherlock or anything else. It’s whether he wants Sherlock to be part of whatever he decides to do. And that decision depends on whether he is willing to take Sherlock as he is. He cannot say, _I’ll come back if you promise… _He can say _I want to be with you_ or _I think we’re done. _Those are his choices.

And when he thinks of it that way, there is only one answer.

He gets out of bed and pads into the other room, bare feet against the chilly wood floor. It’s August, but he can already feel what winter will be like here. Sherlock is curled up on the sofa, his curly hair sticking out of the blanket he’s covered himself with.

He kneels beside the sofa and puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm. With a deep sigh, Sherlock stirs and begins to stretch. The blanket is pulled off his face, and sleepy eyes blink at John.

“My bed is warmer,” John says.

“Oh?” Still blinking, Sherlock sits up. He rubs his eyes and looks at John. “Warmer?”

“Yes, genius. I’m asking you to come to bed with me.”

“Do you mean come to bed with you or _come to bed_ with you?”

He takes Sherlock’s hands and pulls him into a standing position. “I mean, I’ve missed you.”

Sherlock looks uncertain. He wants to ask, John sees, but he isn’t sure he should. He follows John to bed.

And John chooses what he wants. It’s not like a post-case shag, or a _you belong to me_ shag. It’s not a Tuesday night appointment, or a Wednesday obligation. It’s just _I’ve missed you— your ridiculously long limbs and your gorgeous arse and your talented mouth. And your beautiful brain that only ever goes offline when we do this._

They lie in the lumpy bed, under an ancient wool blanket, and John feels complete. It isn't that different from the way it used to be, but at the same time, it is. It’s momentous, John thinks.

“I’m going fishing in the morning,” he says. “Wanna come with me?”

Sherlock blinks.

The silence between them is not bitter, but companionable. Sherlock seems to respect this. With poles in hand, they stand together, casting out into the cool, dark water, and John is not surprised that Sherlock is able to catch several fish. It figures that the world’s only consulting detective, a fisher of men, might also be a catcher of fish.

“I observe,” he says, by way of explanation. “Or perhaps I just think like a fish.”

He follows John on his rounds, sits listening to the local gossip without any sign of impatience. Interest in other people, those who have not committed a murder, is unusual for him, but John can observe as well, and knows that the object of Sherlock’s focus is not life in a small village, but himself. Sherlock studies John as if every conversation, every walk in the woods, every hour with his feet in the water are the most important clues in a mystery.

But he does not deduce out loud. He cannot help but draw conclusions— that will never change. John would not want to change that. John is making deductions of his own, about his own heart— its capacity to forgive, to accept.

They cook together, as they used to, and sleep together. They make love, and he makes a decision.

After three days, Sherlock says, “I have to go back to London.”

John nods. He did not expect him to give up his life and career in exchange for village life. He sees the seeds of an idea, though. Maybe there will be a day when Sherlock finds contentment outside of the Work and London. Before, he would not have been able to imagine him retired, living in the country, but now he can see it. Sherlock fishing, Sherlock chatting with the shopkeepers, solving small village mysteries, maybe keeping bees, designing a garden.

It is something to look forward to.

Now, Sherlock Holmes has to go back to chasing criminals.

John can read the question in his eyes, the longing there, and he understands that Sherlock wants to tell him what to do, but knows that he can’t do that now. When John first moved into the Baker Street rooms, Sherlock used to say, “Come on,” and John would follow. He made John get the milk, run the errands, interview the witnesses, and John did. But his real objective was not to control John. It was to show him.

He remembers Sherlock telling him that his limp was, unfortunately, psychosomatic and that no amount of therapy would fix it. He never took the cane from him, never tried to reason him out of limping. He simply showed him that he didn’t need it. He proved a point without saying a word.

And he is trying to do that now, to irrefutably prove to John that he has changed, that he knows it’s not for him to tell John what to do. He cannot do this with words, and so he has come here, hoping John will observe it for himself. He has to leave now so that John can see that he is different, that he will not say _come on_ and expect John to follow.

“The new doctor arrives in a week,” John tells him. “I’ll stay a few days to orient her, and then I’ll be back in London.”

Sherlock nods, but his smile is tentative. “Your lease expired. I… I’ve been paying month to month so you would have a place to return to, if you should want that.”

“That was Mary’s house. I don’t want to live there.”

Sherlock waits, does not assume.

John smiles. “I want to come home.”

“Home?”

“221B Baker Street. Home, to you.”

Sherlock’s smile widens. “I would like that. Very much.”

“And we won’t need a second bedroom,” John adds.

Two weeks later, he lugs his suitcase up the seventeen steps to the flat. It feels like home, and he realises that it never stopped being home, in his mind.

The place looks like a tornado has gone through it— an experiment in progress in the kitchen, piles of books and magazines around Sherlock’s chair, a plate with a piece of half-eaten toast on the table, cups of half-drunk tea in random places, some growing mould. _It’s an experiment,_ he assumes.

In other words, nothing has changed. And he sees what it means. If Sherlock had tidied everything up, that would be a promise he could not keep. It would be a come-on— _See? I’ve changed! _He leaves the mess because he wants John to know what he’s in for.

His own chair is free of clutter, and he gratefully sinks into it. It’s comforting, somehow, to sit here and realise that Sherlock has been waiting for him. All these months, he realises, Sherlock has been trying to show John the truth, that this is what he really wants.

His phone buzzes. An address.

_Come at once _

_if convenient._

_SH_

Before he can think of a cheeky reply, it buzzes again.

_If inconvenient_

_come anyway._

_SH_

He laughs out loud. Nothing has changed, but everything is different.

He texts: _on my way._


End file.
